And the Saint strolled into the hotel bar.
Over an ice-cool lager, he reflected. Somebody was obviously very anxious to prevent his involvement in the Patroclos affair; and if the Saint disliked being pressured into a certain line of action, he disliked even more being warned off.
Twenty minutes later he paid off a taxi in front of the Patroclos HQ building and strode past the receptionist and through the outer office, waving to Ariadne; then he opened the big double doors to reveal Patroclos at his desk.
“Templar!”
“I’ve thought things over,” said the Saint simply.
“And changed your mind? Splendid. I knew you would not be able to resist opposing yourself to the cleverness of this impersonator...”
“Is there anything else I should know?” asked the Saint.
“Yes. There is my codebook. This man or his agents have been to my safe!”
Simon nodded.
“I figured as much when you said he’d been able to use your cheques. But what’s in the codebook?”
Patroclos made an all-embracing gesture.
“Everything crucial. Details of my entire business empire: details which I need in order to direct operations. No one else is permitted to have access to all of these details together — none of my employees, even the most senior and trusted. But he has them! Plus — the most important of all — the codes I use to communicate vital instructions to my key executives.”
“Which you immediately cancelled, I trust,” said the Saint.
“Naturally I attempted to. But he is clever, Templar — very clever. He had already contacted — this you will not believe — he had already notified my major companies that an impostor is at large and would attempt to change the codes! He tells them in my name! They are to ignore any such attempt — they must respond only to the established codes!”
“And I suppose you’ve no other copy of the codes?”
Patroclos sighed.
“For security reasons, I kept only one book. I realise now this was bad security. He has the codes and he can give vital instructions, but I cannot even cancel his orders. Do you not see what this means, Templar?”
“I think I’m beginning to get the picture,” said the Saint mildly.
The black eyes bulged and the hairy hands gesticulated excitedly as Patroclos continued.
“This is the crucial step in taking over my business — my entire life. He becomes me. He acquires a greater claim to my existence than I myself! He overtakes me, turns me into the impostor. He forces me out and takes my place. So — Templar — please find this masquerader and get back my codebook.”
“And where do I start?”
“London.”
“London?” The Saint raised an eyebrow.
“It should not be so inconvenient for you. You were on your way there. Now you can continue your journey. Next week I have an important series of meetings in London. He will almost certainly be intending to be there. Your job is to find him — forestall him. And, Templar,” he added with some further eyebulging and gesticulating, “most important — get back my codebook. Quickly!”
“I’ll be on my way in the morning,” said the Saint.
“There is a flight at half past five,” Patroclos said.
“Ariadne didn’t seem to think so earlier.”
“So. Perhaps she forgot — this is Tuesday. There is an evening flight. I will tell her to arrange your ticket.”
“Oddly enough,” said the Saint with quiet thoughtfulness, “I’ve got one already.”
4
Simon Templar arrived in London in the small hours and went straight to the compact mews house behind Queen’s Gate that had served his needs so well for several years. Its position and construction offered certain natural advantages — which was why he had chosen it in the first place — and the Saint had added a unique range of refinements, including some highly unorthodox gadgetry that had proved invaluable in his dealings with both the underground and the law.
Outside the street door he consulted a tiny light-bulb which was tucked away in a hidden recess; and with some further precautions he went in. Some quick checks confirmed that no one had been in the house in his absence. These were merely routine actions that had become semi-automatic for a privateer like the Saint with an instinct for survival.
He slept until nine, which he regarded as a moderately civilised hour at which to rise, swing a pair of Indian clubs vigorously for a few minutes, shower, and consume quantities of bacon, eggs, toast and coffee. The Saint did all these things, and in that order: and then, fit and ready to punch the world on the nose, he sallied forth.
The first object on which his energies impinged was the long-nosed cream and red Hirondel in the garage. Simon spent a few minutes preparing it for the road, and after re-setting his various household devices he snaked the big car through the traffic to the offices of the Daily Express, where a sub-editor on the paper, Joe Daly, had often helped out in the past by allowing him access to files and photographs.
Joe was in cheerful form as always, and the Saint’ grinned as the short square figure appeared and slapped him on the back.
“Simon, you old son of a gun!” he exclaimed in his chirrupy brogue. “How’s business? Been keeping the nose clean then, I see,” he added, referring to the lack of recent news stories about the Saint’s exploits.
“I’ve been out of the country for a while, Joe. What can you give me on Diogenes Patroclos?”
“Patroclos? Old golden guts?”
“The same. Joe, I’d be obliged if you’d show me what you’ve got in the photo library.”
They went together into the long room that housed the paper’s main collection of personal data. Daly rummaged in a cabinet.
“Strictly against the rules, this, Simon, y’know. Ah, here we are, Diogenes Patroclos.” Daly pulled out a hefty file and gave it to Simon. “And there’s references to a whole string of his companies — you can have a look at the files on them if you like. Mostly pictures of aircraft and ships as I remember.”
“Thanks, Joe. Just now it’s the man himself that I’m interested in,” explained the Saint as he riffled through the photos.
Daly peered over his shoulder.
“Ugly bugger, isn’t he. What’s he been up to?”
“You tell me,” said the Saint.
Daly looked reflective.
“Wait — there was something. His ships’ve been carrying some dodgy cargoes lately. There was some rumbling here and there about it.”
The Saint nodded.
“I’d heard that much. But it never made the papers, did it?”
“We tried to work up a feature, but the old man said let it ripen a bit first.”
“What about women?” the Saint asked, still thumbing through the photographs.
“The man’s a monk. Only thing he takes home is bits of glass.”
“Glass?”
“Tinkle, tinkle, you know. Stuff you drink out of. He’s got one of the best collections in the world. Antique goblets — all that sort of thing...”
The Saint had stopped and extracted two photos from the file.
“Joe — look at these.”
Daly took them, glanced at the pictures, and then read the description on the reverse.
“Diogenes Patroclos presenting the Out Islands Yachting Trophy — Nassau... Diogenes Patroclos party-going in Lisbon. So what?”